Thread of hope
by Belthronding
Summary: Silmarillion-based. Of the fates of Eluréd and Elurin, Dior's young sons, after the fall of Doriath. A tale of despair, hope, and betrayal. Status: Chap. 4 up: The battle at the mouths of Sirion.
1. Despair

A/N:  Thank you to Tash for Beta reading this. Although she has no notion of the Silmarillion, she still looked through it and gave me some helpful suggestions, so thanks.

My first Silmarillion based fic, I've been reading Tolkien's books for a long time, but I hadn't the courage or ideas for a fic. But one major gap in the plot left me wondering 

                                     **Of the fates of Eluréd and Elurín**

"_[Maedros] sought for them long in the woods of Doriath; but his search was unavailing, and of the fate of Eluréd and Elurín no tale tells_." –Of the ruin of Doriath, The Silmarillion.

They were taken at unawares. The sons of Fëanor marched upon Doriath nigh on half way through winter. Elf slayed elf for the second time in history; thus by Dior's sword fell three of the brothers-Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, but he also was victim of the oath, along with Nimloth his wife. Eluréd and Elurín, their two young sons, were seized by servants of Celegorm and taken into the forest to starve.

**

"Eluréd, where are we?" whispered Elurín, the younger, and weaker of the two.

"Hush." He did not want his brother to know he was scared.

Together they made their way deeper into the woods of Doriath, where they had seldom been, and had no wish to be.

"We will rest here tonight Elurín."

 They were standing by the vague form of a huge oak, that stretched up into the darkness. Obediently Elurín rested his frail back against the trunk and closed his eyes while Eluréd settled down next to him, aware of his brother's constant shivers and chattering teeth. It was hardly comfortable, and he fell into uneasy dreams, echoes and screams of the victims of Doriath pursued him; he could see his mother, Nimloth, valiantly fighting till the end, and his father Dior also.

Eluréd woke first with a start. His breath blew little clouds of air in front of him and he watched them disperse for a while before waking Elurín. 

"We must leave, Elurín, we cannot linger, the cold is treacherous."

Wearily they got up, forsaking sleep for the harsh light of day. The trees seemed as strange forms, leering down at them from above, while a fine mist hung in the air, obscuring their vision. The atmosphere was hostile, and nervously picking their way among the roots and brambles, the brothers valiantly straggled on. They sought desperately for any sign of recognition, but in vain.

"Eluréd…" Elurín's words came out croakily. They were not talking unless they had to, trying to conserve their energy, in case…they knew not, but it was an instinct they both possessed.

Eluréd turned to his brother in concern. He did not look well, his skin was tinged unusually pale and he lingered farther and farther behind him. 

"I am hungry. Can you remember the last meal we had?"

Yes, Eluréd could. They were sitting in one of the vast halls of Menegroth, beside their parents, sister Elwing, and numerous other elves. Torches and fires burned bright around them, the food glistened on their plates, steamy vapours rising from it, the odours mingling into one, mouth wateringly good smell. _Safe_. But no, they were no longer warm and safe. A gust of wind cut through Eluréd's thin clothing, reminding him of this all the more.

"There is no use thinking of that." Eluréd snapped, annoyed with himself for reliving memories that could no longer exist. 

Elurín looked at him, surprised and hurt by the reprimand.

_I am only thinking of him_, thought Eluréd, _if he dwells on the past, he will not make it_. But twisting round, he added: "There is road ahead of us. Do not look behind."

He took Elurin's hand in his to warm it. It was freezing but he could hardly feel it, for both their hands were numb.

They passed a wild berry bush, which was not completely frozen, and after spending a while trying to detach them from the leaves, they gorged themselves whole-heartedly.  Momentarily contented, Elurín began singing under his breath; a song his mother had taught him, of stars and the waterfall of Lanthir Lamath. For a second time, Eluréd quietened his brother.

"We do not know what is roaming in these woods anymore. Nowhere is safe." After uttering these words he realised those were not the appropriate ones. Elurín abruptly stopped his tune, and asked:

"Are there…orcs?"

"I do not know, but who can tell these days?" For Eluréd alone of the two had listened in awe and apprehension to his father's tales of bands of orcs, who were known to have ransacked areas of Northern Doriath in acts of boldness, plundering and setting alight each dwelling they came upon.

"What of…balrogs?"

"What would _you_ know of balrogs Elurín?"

"I heard father's tales once, same as you." Elurín was proud and defiant.

"There are no balrogs in these woods." Eluréd's words were as much to comfort his brother as to himself.

Presently, they arrived by a river.

"This must be Esgalduin. We must cross it."

"Why?"

"We cannot go back, and we cannot go round."

Elurín began to cry.

"I'm cold."

"Can you never stop Elurín? Whimpering and crying will not get us across. Why did I not leave you in Menegroth?" He knew his words to be too harsh, and that he was not the one who had decided that they should be plucked from their home, but Eluréd knew of no other way to reason with his small brother.

"A boat", he piped up suddenly, "we should use a boat."

"Oh good thinking Elurín. Do you happen to see one floating down the river? Or perhaps you imagine we could make one, with dead, frozen, lifeless branches."

Elurín's young face parted into a frown, his lips turning down at the sides. Without a word he approached the bank and bent down; with one small finger he touched the river. Eluréd watched from a distance, unsure of his brother's mind. Then Elurín hiked up his tunic, and slowly, awkwardly he dipped the very tip of his toe into the freezing water. He gave a little cry of surprise, but undeterred, he plunged his foreleg in, and then the other leg, and started wading across. The cold was unbearable, the treacherous water licked at his knees, sharp as knives.

"Elurín! Wait!" Eluréd cried. Without a thought he dashed into the river, after his brother.

Elurín had hardly reached the middle when he slipped in and let out a cry. Eluréd swam the few strokes to his brother and hauled him up.

"You imbecile. Are you trying to drown yourself?" Roughly he grasped Elurín's shoulder and pulled him to the opposite bank. If before the brothers had been cold, this was far worse. The water clung to every part of them, their hair, their clothing and body. A brisk wind shook the trees, making their fine garments stick to their skin. Elurín did not complain, though he was completely soaked and had lost his boots in the water. _A thousands swords penetrating them from all sides_, thought Eluréd. As they marched, the silence opressed him so he tried to whistle quietly to himself, but the air was so cold, and his lips so dry he soon gave up. The day was drawing to a close as the vessel of Tilion appeared in the sky. Eluréd stopped. 

"We will rest now, among the shadows here."

Elurín merely nodded, too tired, too cold, too hungry and far too weak to notice where they were. He had not uttered a word since the river crossing. Eluréd took off his cloak and laid it, clumsily but tenderly over his brother. Wearily, he closed his eyes and tried to find sleep. It would not come. _Would they survive? Would they survive the night? Would they find their way back to Menegroth?_ Like flies the questions buzzed inside Eluréd's head. He had not dared to think of his parents. It was too soon. He only had to picture them, to say their names- and a sob rose in his throat. He choked it back down with difficulty. If he were to cry, how would Elurín fare? He needed to be strong, for him, for him only…

As the thin, watery sun rose, it warmed Eluréd enough to wake him. He sat up. His muscles hurt from being clenched against the cold and from lying against the bare ground. He turned to his brother, and gaped.

Elurín's eyes were shut, and little pearly drops of ice had formed there, as crystal tears. His skin was white no more, for blue it had become, the veins along his neck hardly bluer in comparison. His little hands still clenched Eluréd's cloak, in a death-like grasp. His mouth was parted in a thin smile; Elurín had forsaken Middle Earth.

Eluréd knelt by his younger brother, and kissed his icy forehead. 

"Goodbye, brother mine," he murmured. He hoped his brother would walk again in the Blessed Realm, beside Dior and Nimloth, their parents. 

He had not the heart to take back his cloak and instead, wrapped his brother up in it. The ground was solid as rock, he had no hope of burying Elurín properly. Still, he hollowed out an area as best he could; half dragged half carried his brother and gently covered all with a thin layer of soil, and leaves. On finding a smooth stone he carved with a sharp stick: "_Here lies Elurín, son of Dior and Nimloth, brother of Eluréd and Elwing_." After weeping for what seemed like a long time, he cast a last look at his brother's final resting place, before turning on his heel and trudging away.

A/N: Seeing as we don't know anything of Eluréd and Elurín, I took it upon myself to give them their own personalities, and weaknesses. So you may wonder why Elurín dies, though he had an extra cloak, but he is the younger brother, the weaker one, who easily succumbs to external hazards. Eluréd however, is more strongly built, which could explain why he survived the night. We are never specifically told, but Elurín and Eluréd are meant to be twins, so if I say one is younger than the other, you can interpret it as meaning Eluréd came into the world _before _Elurín, or that they are not twins at all, but separated but a few years.


	2. Interlude: New Hope

Surrender-Part II  
  
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, this will not be as sad as the last chapter, I couldn't quite face Eluréd's death. I'm not sure he'd forgive me. Obviously he still has to get a bit battered, but all in all it's more positive. This will be more of a narrative chapter, setting the scene for the next part, which will be more dialogue, so it is rather short. (sorry for all the 'more's)  
  
Eluréd's fate.  
  
After leaving his brother's body long did Eluréd walk, seemingly oblivious to the cold. For many leagues his little feet trudged on, when hunger became too much for him he went in search of a berry shrub, or some other source of food to fill him up momentarily. Unbeknownst to him, his path was leading him eastward, south of the twilight world of Nan Elmoth.  
  
Thus for many days and nights he marched, trance-like, numb to all feeling. He had become a wraith, and if ever he met be it animal or elf or human, they shunned him, thinking him to be a thrall let loose, or some other strange creature of the night, and in truth, they were not far wrong. Eluréd passed across the river Aros, and traversed Estolad, called the encampment from the days when the first Men crossed the Blue Mountains into Beleriand.  
  
He began to have some bearings as to where he may be, and veered southwards as he approached the river Gelion, which flowed mightily in those regions. On approaching Ossiriand from the North East, Eluréd's strength failed him. He lay down, in the shade of a tree and knew no more.  
  
But his fate was not to end there. Two Laiquendi espied his young form from afar and approached him cautiously. Upon realising he was a young elf, they bore him off into their realm. Thus began Eluréd's healing.  
  
He lay as one dead for many days, and the green elves thought him lost. He was delirious; often calling out names in a slurred speech the Laiquendi could not comprehend, and breaking into sweats. On the twentieth day since his arrival in Ossiriand he awoke. The green elves asked his name, but Eluréd remained silent. They asked of what origin he was, his kin and family. Still young Eluréd did not say a word, so traumatised with grief he was.  
  
The Laiquendi decided to give him a new name, Nimrandîn, which meant pale silent wanderer, as they perceived him to have travelled a great distance. Little did they know he had been born in Ossiriand, of Nimloth of Doriath and Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien.  
  
Eluréd grew steadily stronger and was accepted and liked among the Laiquendi. He was quick and eager to learn all he could, as he had forgotten his previous teachings in Doriath, and Lanthir Lamath. He took on their green raiment and much resembled the green elves in speech and manner, but not in looks. He became skilled in the art of wariness, stealth and secrecy that the Laiquendi were known for. However, this also was to become his weakness.  
  
After some time, Eluréd grew tired of the endless hiding, he longed for battles where he could shine, and new people he could meet, and inevitably, was drawn to the sea. The green elves at first would not let him go, deeming him too young in their eyes. But when news came of Elwing, Dior's daughter who had escaped Doriath with the remnant of her people and Eärendil who had fled with the exiles from Gondolin, living by the mouths of Sirion, Eluréd's time had come.  
  
The mention of Elwing had stirred his heart in a way he could not yet comprehend, and the green elves finally let him go. He was accompanied by two valiant friends, and together they set off westwards, towards the sea. 


	3. The Journey Westwards

The Journey Westwards  
  
Disclaimer: All characters, place names and situations are the work of JRR Tolkien. No infringement intended. The name Nimrandin is mine, though the character is not. Sirros is mine too, the name Annael is courtesy of Tolkien (he was a grey elf of Mithrim) but I liked the name, and besides, Tolkien himself used the same names for completely different people, throughout the ages. (Think Finduilas, being the daughter of Orodreth (First Age) and also the wife of Denethor II, mother of Boromir of the nine walkers. Incidentally Denethor was also a Nandorin elf) I will shut up now and end the disclaimer.  
  
Part III  
  
And so young Nimrandin set off on his long awaited journey. With him were two companions, who were ordered to look after and defend the young elf in any way they could. They were called Sirros and Annael.  
  
Together they crossed the river Gelion. Nimrandin looked back over his shoulder at the only home he knew. A wistful look past over his face fleetingly but Sirros was quick to notice this.  
  
'Are you regretting your decision already, Nimrandin? Tis not late enough to turn back if you would wish.'  
  
The elf sighed. ' I know you mean well, but my mind is made up. To the Mouths of Sirion I go, with or without companions.'  
  
'Very well. Then we must accompany you, however perilous be the journey.'  
  
Nimrandin nodded his ascent and turned away. 'On we go. The road is long.'  
  
The three companions started the long walk westwards. Already, Amon Ereb was in sight, and they planned to make it their first stop. But they did not know what troubles, if any would hinder them. After all, the Laiquendi never went into open war and kept much to themselves, relying on stealth and secrecy, these two things that Nimrandin particularly abhorred, having abided by those rules for many years. And so, tidings from far West were long to reach their ears, however keen they may be for news of their kin.  
  
The first night, they made an encampment in a small cave, on the western side of Amon Ereb. They started a small, weak fire. They did not sleep, but sat, each caught up in dreams of other places, other times maybe, when the three Elf Kingdoms were still alive and prosperous. Only Nimrandin seemed to be thinking of the future, he whose memory only stretched back a few years. The flames danced a curious sensuous ballad, of red and golden hues, contrasting with the brute naked walls of the cave. Annael was first to come out of this seeming torpor. He looked up, and saw little sparks dancing in Nimrandin's eyes, reflections of the fire, or a revelation of his feelings? From his pocket, he extracted a leaf of lembas, and passed it around. They each took only a few nibbles, conscious of how precious this food was. The sound of munching broke the heavy silence, and Annael ventured a question.  
  
'What do you hope to find at the Mouths of Sirion?'  
  
The question was quite simply and directly put, and it unbalanced Nimrandin.  
  
'You embarrass me Annael, for I have no complete answer. When the name Elwing was first mentioned, my heart warmed and was moved like never before. I do not feel whole, nor do I remember my past. There are secrets and many things I would like to know.'  
  
'You think Elwing holds the key?'  
  
'Yet again, I cannot answer. I would like to think yes, and I must, to keep hope from dying utterly. But I cannot tell. I am certain someone, somewhere must know something, and the remnants of the great Elf Kingdoms harbour at the Mouths of Sirion-  
  
'With Elwing.'  
  
'Indeed. That is why I must go.'  
  
Annael looked at Nimrandin in a different light. No longer did he seem the little orphan elf, or the weakling, the misfit. He sensed the determination, yet desperation in Nimrandin's voice. He admired him much for that. Had he not been his companion, he would most likely have remained in Ossiriand for ages to come.  
  
Silence came once again between the three, but this time it was companiable. The flames flickered, and died down. The long, tireless dance had come to an end.  
  
  
  
Early morning came, and the elves left their shelter. Neither of the three, outwardly anyway, wished to pass through Taur-Im-Duinath, so though a longer route, they decided to pass South of Ramdal and Andram, then skirt southwards, down to the Mouth of Sirion, and thus avoiding the forest between rivers.  
  
Of the second and third day of the journey, not much need be recalled. Their course was not hindered, and the three were quietly confident they were making good progress.  
  
However, on the fourth day, Sirros started to feel uneasy. They had left behind the shelter of the Andram and were now walking in open spaces.  
  
'We should rest in the eaves of Taur-Im-Duinath.'  
  
Annael and Nimrandin stared at him. The wilds of the forest were frequented by nobody, not even orcs. It had been known that occasionally a few Dark Elves had wandered among its trees, but the tangled forest appealed to none. Now Sirros was known to be courageous, but this often, as the case now was, bordered on swaggering, high risk taking behaviour.  
  
'That is a hostile unfriendly country my friend.' Said Anneal coldly. 'It is frequented by none.'  
  
'Exactly. If no elf nor orc roams in these lands, where else would we be safer?' There was a dangerous, steely edge to his voice, which Nimrandin disliked.  
  
'Have you not thought, that perhaps there is a reason for that?'  
  
'Do not try to overcome me, Nimrandin. We all know you are not one of us. You have relied on my people's friendship and goodwill many years now. It is time you repaid us. Are you not of like mind, Annael?' Sirros turned, and smiled threateningly at the elf who had been silent.  
  
'I do not have to choose.' he said quietly. 'You are being unjust, Sirros. You know full well that Nimrandin is accepted and liked among the Laiquendi, and surpasses you in stealth and secrecy. This is not a reason to grate him down. Now, you are here as a companion of Nimrandin, who is going to the Mouths of Sirion. You chose to accompany him, of your own freewill. Do not let there be any more unpleasantness between us.'  
  
Annael's cool voice managed to simmer down Sirros' temper temporarily, but not completely. They walked awkwardly at first, Sirros repentant of his harsh words, but too proud to admit to it. He led the party, rather than be trailing behind. No more words on Taur-Im-Duinath were exchanged.  
  
  
  
When all three elves were getting weary, they settled in the most covered spot they could find, and took turns to watch. When Sirros' turn came, his slender figure melted into the night. Or rather the night swallowed him up. Indeed when he came not back after several hours, Nimrandin and Annael grew worried. What silent danger had assailed their friend? Should one go and search for him, or should they wait for morning? As they were sitting debating the issue, Sirros suddenly reappeared.  
  
'Where have you been? Your watch was over long ago!' Nimrandin looked sharply at his companion.  
  
But Sirros remained calm; a serenity unknown to his usual self had taken over him.  
  
'I was on watch. I heard a noise. I went to investigate. I got lost. I found my way back.' And he would say no more.  
  
Nimrandin and Annael exchanged nervous glances. Someone, or something had obviously touched their friend. There was no companiable, or contemplative silence. Instead, the air hung heavy again, not with awkwardness but a nervous tension. Sirros seemed blissfully unaware, or he chose not to notice. He stared fixedly at the ground. His face seemed paler than usual, his features tight, gaunt, mask-like. The elf that Nimrandin and Annael had known had gone, and been replaced by a stiff, somewhat prim, stranger.  
  
The dawn could not come early enough, and Nimrandin and Annael seemed eager to set off. Sirros was reticent, and found excuses to delay their departure. Eventually they did leave, and Nimrandin's sprits rose: The eaves of Nan-Tathren were visible. Just a little way further would be the River Sirion. They walked at a quicker pace, sensing their journey to be drawing to a close. At a pause, Sirros decided to speak, which came only to readily for the other two.  
  
'Do you know any information about Elwing?'  
  
This startled Nimrandin. 'No. Not more than any of us. She escaped the ruin of Doriath, with a few of her people.'  
  
'Did she not wed Earendil?'  
  
'Yes, that is accurate. But why these questions? You know the answers as well as I.'  
  
'Do you know that Elwing bears a Silmaril? The fair jewel, indeed won from Morgoth's crown by Beren, and Luthien the beloved. But both are dead, and though none dared claim it while Luthien wore it, it now rightfully should be restored to the sons of Feanor.'  
  
'Where do you get your knowledge from? One would think you were a Noldo. The tale of Beren and Luthien is known throughout Beleriand. But is not Elwing now heir to it? She is the daughter of Dior, son of Luthien and Beren. One would think the Silmaril belonged to her,' cut in Annael.  
  
Sirros frowned. 'Do you know not of the oath of Feanor? The jewels were made by him. By right they belong now to his sons.'  
  
'Since when do you side with the Noldor on this matter?'  
  
'I do not always air my views.'  
  
Throughout the exchange, Nimrandin meekly stood nearby. Deep within him he knew this issue concerned him greatly, but did not know why. The names rang distantly in his mind, but when he tried to grasp at them, they disappeared, and shrank into nothingness like fragile cobwebs.  
  
  
  
'We will travel south now, my friends,' announced Sirros to his two companions, 'the way will be shorter and we shall not have to pass by the marshes.'  
  
'What know you of the exact location of the marshes? If indeed you do not have a map.'  
  
'I have no map.' Yet again, Sirros seemed to be hiding something from them, but they followed his steps nonetheless.  
  
The River Sirion was before them, and a mighty sight it was indeed. 'Not as beautiful as the sea, I am sure,' thought Nimrandin. As the company progressed southwards, it became apparent that not long before someone had walked upon that very trail. The ground had been roughly trod on, blades of grass battered into a greenish pulp, as if by feet in too much of a hurry to care.  
  
'What urgency has caused this?' asked Anneal, as much to himself as to the others. He was very much at one with nature, and loathed that it should be brutalised in such a way. It would take a long time to heal.  
  
Sirros examined the marks closely, as if looking for clues, or indications as to who had passed through before them. He looked up darkly.  
  
'We must hurry.'  
  
Nimrandin did not question him. He too was anxious to get to the sea, and did not notice how solemn his friend had become. Annael on his part, grew suspicious. What did he know that they didn't? Only that morning he had been so reticent to leave, and now he could not move fast enough. He decided to keep a close eye on Sirros, until they got to the Mouths of Sirion anyway.  
  
The air was deathly quiet. No bird, no animal made a sound. A strange fog hung around the three elves, clinging lovingly to them, though the feeling was not returned. 'This is strangely familiar', thought Nimrandin, touching at the fog tentatively. Gradually though, it dissipated, and suddenly there they were: the Mouths of Sirion, the sea, and the remnant of the Eldar, who maybe could tell Nimrandin of his past.  
  
*TBC* 


	4. To find and to Lose

Authors note: When I started writing this chapter, it refused to be written, but coming back to it, everyone is much more cooperative! I feel mean killing Amrod and Amras today, having just read Ithilwen's story were they're portrayed as cute, innocent toddlers. But the Silmarils changed the best of people…

There shall probably be an epilogue, when I get around to it! In the mean time, feel free to read and maybe review?

To Find and to Lose 

                                                         

'This is not what I thought I would find.' It was hard for Nimrandin to hide his disappointment.

A faint smell of burning filled the air. A puff of smoke, silvery grey yet ethereal and ghostly, was visible between the trees, rising into the sky, then dissipating, and the three companions made their way towards its origin. In the clearing stood a house. Or rather, a house had stood there, for it was but black walls, and crumbled ruins. Household possessions were strewn about the place, indicating the owners had not time to put together their belongings, and had fled hurriedly-or had perished there.

'What disaster has struck here?' 

'We must hurry,' Sirros repeated, 'we cannot linger, it is dangerous.'

'Tell us what you know of this,' ordered Nimrandin.

'Nay, you shall see for yourselves soon enough,' and Sirros laughed nastily, 'Come, I will lead the way.'

'Are we to follow?' whispered Annael to Nimrandin. 

'Aye, we have no choice I fear,' his companion replied, uneasily.

***

As they drew closer to the sea, faint cries reached their ears. Sounds of a distant battle perhaps.

'The road ends here, my friends.' Sirros stopped abruptly.

'What mean you?' cried Annael. 'There is still a way to go!'

'No. My journey ends here. Fare thee well Nimrandin.' Sirros' voice held a touch of irony, as he turned and walked away, without looking back.

The two elves were in a state of confusion. Rather than call back their friend, who had disappeared, they walked onwards-and fell on the battle. 

Shouts and screams echoed around them. But it was no ordinary skirmish. Elves were slaying elves, for the third time in the history of Arda. Swords crashed against swords, in almighty sounds of steel. Swords were penetrating flesh, Swords were mortally wounding. Arrows were flying through the air, with a rush of wind, sometimes on target, sometimes not. Elves were fleeing in all directions in panic, but _where_ were they to go?

Nimrandin was filled with desperation at this terrible scene. Indeed he had heard, somewhat distantly, of great battles throughout the history of Middle Earth. But this, this was ten times worse. Never, in all his young, naïve years, had he imagined battles to be of this nature. This was not heroic, nor was it glorious. Instead, young or old, innocent, or less innocent elves were cruelly being slain, at the touch of a bow, or at the hands of steel, _for what purposes _he knew not. _Oh! Why had he not stayed in Ossiriand?_ The gentle, quiet and reclusive life had not been that bad. But he had left, and there was no time for further thoughts, as he would surely be slain too.

En elf came at him with a dagger, so mechanically reaching for his sword, he pushed him off. But he could not bring himself to puncture the body. He hoped he had not mortally wounded him, for he had no notion of who he was, or what the fighting was for. All he could think of was his quest for Elwing. He withdrew from the battle scenes of devastation, and made his way towards the sea. But he had not left all battles behind him. On the harbour, he saw a Nis, who was manning her sword so adroitly he could not but admire her. Slowly he approached. She was alone, casting a vulnerable figure. The grey-blue waves crashed in a symphony of noise and her white, pale form contrasted so vividly with it.

'_Elwing_?' It was but feeble hope.

The elf turned briefly in his direction. Her eyes, supposedly mirrors of her fëa, were filled with a deep sadness. Silver rivers were trickling down her cheeks.

'Yes, that is I. What seek you, traveller?'

'I have a personal matter to discuss with one who bares your name.'

'Indeed.' Elwing looked strangely at this queer elf, cloaked all in green.  

Nimrandin looked back into her eyes, so similar in colour to his own. The same shade of brown, and the same almond shape. But those eyes were filled with a wild fear. 

'_History is repeating itself_,' she murmured sadly.

Nimrandin had no time to question her last remark further for the spell was broken abruptly, as two elves, their fair faces distorted in fury-_or was it pain?_ – with weapons poised were making for Elwing. Brandishing his sword yet again, Nimrandin barred their way, allowing Elwing free passage to escape.

'Namaarië, fair stranger,' Elwing whispered taking to her heels and running into the distance.

'Nimrandin! Take heed!' Annael cried, running to his companion's side. He had followed Nimrandin since he had left the battle, and had witnessed his meeting with Elwing. The scene had touched him, and he thought it unwise to intervene and had remained in the shadows.

Then began a vicious fight, whence could only be two victors. But these elves were strong, and a light was in their eyes a likeness to which Nimrandin could not compare, for it was the light of the Two Trees. Nonetheless, he had trained in sword fight. This was to his advantage for the elf clearly judging him by appearances thought him less than capable. They circled one another, until suddenly the elf threw himself on Nimrandin. They rolled in the dirt. Nimrandin was getting weak; his muscles were sore and burning. He had no practise of elf against elf warfare, though evidently his opponent had.

'How dare you let her get away!' Amras, _for it was indeed Amras, youngest son of Fëanor_, hissed.

'What does she possess that you must so have?' Nimrandin gasped. Amras was pressing hard against Nimrandin's chest, quenching the air from his body.

'No matter that concerns you, wood elf,' Sneered Amras, 'if you be even an elf, and not some half breed escaped thrall?'

That was enough for Nimrandin; in a sudden spurt of energy he threw off Amras, who fell backwards. He heard the crack as the elf's head hit the floor. His body fell still, so Nimrandin bent down; for Amras' eyes were closed, to judge the extent of the injuries he had inflicted. But those eyes opened, and two hands snaked around Nimrandin's neck, and tightened. He began to choke, and gasping for breath tried to fight those fingers off, but in vain for the grip was like a vice. At last, he managed to free his sword and plunge it into Amras' chest. At once the hands went limp, and disengaging himself, Nimrandin, looking at his bloody sword was horrified. In its dull gleam he could see his blurry self; ashen face, and a nasty purple welts around his neck, where hands had gripped, just moments before. Blood was also smeared on his forehead, and hands. He stared at them, unblinking. He was stained with the blood of the Eldar. Suddenly, a force took over him, and he maniacally wiped himself on his grubby cloak. 

'The stains are not coming off! Annael, help me! I truly do have blood on my hands. I am stained for life.'

'Come, Nimrandin, the fight is not over yet.' Gently, but sternly Annael awoke his friend from this reverie. He too had fought, and Amrod, twin brother of Amras, lay equally immobile, his spirit having departed with that of his brother. Inseparable they were in life, and their spirits could finally join hands and sit in the halls of Mandos together. The oath was no longer upon them. But for others it still was a lead weight, and Nimrandin and Annael pursued the cries and shouts that still ringed the air, and threw themselves back into battle, which waged on.

Elves fell left and right, but Nimrandin ploughed onwards, oblivious. He had overcome his terror of war, and the pile of bodies touched him but from far away. He knew only that he was fighting for Elwing, wherever she may be now, and had joined himself, along with Annael, to the remnants of the people of Doriath and Gondolin, who were now but few. 

'So we meet again, fair wanderer!' A voice, cold but dripping with contempt, spoke in Nimrandin's back.

The latter spun around. 

'Sirros!' _Should he be relieved or horrified?_

'Indeed, I have the pleasure of your company again. Come now, I challenge you to a duel.'

'Surely you are not siding with the kin slayers, that be the sons of Fëanor?' Annael stood in front of Nimrandin, protecting, screening him from mayhap a sudden outburst of violence.

'Stand aside Annael. This quarrel shall be fought between Nimrandin and I.' Sirros unsheathed his sword, which glittered menacingly.

In a moment Nimrandin had done likewise. All he could see was Sirros, and Sirros' sword. The world around him dimmed and blurred, the screams became but a low, steady murmur. He did not know if he could overcome Sirros, even slay him, but he knew one of them had to die before the battle could be won, or lost.

A gleam in Sirros' eyes indicated he would not have mercy. Lightning flashed, and in that instant, in that strange white world, he appeared so great, so strong and powerful, his silhouette boldly painted on the harsh landscape, that Nimrandin faltered. Gripping his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white, and keeping his gaze on Sirros' every movement, he sprang forward. Metal clashed against metal, ringing dully. Sirros took a few steps back, and Nimrandin, sensing his advantage stabbed outwards. Sirros however, was deft and light of feet, and managed to ward off the sword. 

'Come now, thrall, is that the best you can offer?' He taunted.

A white fury came over Nimrandin.

'I have just been called that by someone, and they lay slain on the harbour. Care to join him?' 

Sirros paled, and the evil grin that had spread over his face vanished. _Was this bluff, or did Nimrandin speak truthfully?  _

'What speak you of?' He feigned ignorance and disinterest. 

'I am sure you are more able than I to answer. What tales have you told the sons of Fëanor? Surely you have not regaled them with words of my _prowess_ on the battlefield, nor of my _skills_ in stealth and secrecy?' He let out a cold, fake laugh.

'Indeed no.' Sirros grated his teeth.

'Well what then?' Nimrandin seemed genuinely interested, but his tones of underlying merriment irritated Sirros.

'Enough!' He roared. 'I came to challenge you to a duel, not to exchange frivolities.' And his sword whipped to and fro, slicing through Nimrandin's cheek. The scar would stay with him for evermore. 

'Have it your way!' 

Nimrandin thought, _I offered him a way out, he declined to take it. May the best swordsman win. _

At that moment the Heavens opened, icy rain fell heavily on the two opponents, obscuring their vision. Nimrandin swiped quickly at his eyes, pearls of translucent water dripping slowly from his head down his neck. He wanted this to be over, for either Sirros to be dead by his sword-_he shuddered_-or for him to be slain, as a martyr of war. Forgetting his previous teachings, he barged into Sirros, head butting him in the stomach, who was indeed taken by surprise and winded. Grappling with each other, unable to see much past the ends of their noses, their own battle waged on. Then finally Nimrandin was on top, and pinned down Sirros' shoulders.

'Slay me then!' He spat. 'Mandos will have little mercy for slayers of friends.'

'I think you turned from that path long ago, Sirros. Since when are friends in league with Kinslayers? For if you join yourself to them, in my eyes you _become_ won of them.'

Sirros was writhing, unable to bare the torment. He could not come to look Nimrandin in the face, so ashamed and resentful he was. In his heart there was but hatred, all love had been feigned since that fateful night when he had met the sons of Fëanor by the encampment, and been ensnared by them. Until now, he did not realise they had used him purely for their own benefits, to get to their beloved trinkets, thinking that as he was companion to one seeking Elwing somehow he would be connected with the Silmarils. They had promised him glory, and if he succeeded in bringing him the jewel, they were willing to share it with him. How naïve he had been, in the face of the mighty Noldor! He but a meagre green elf, never been to the Blessed Land, never looked upon the Two Trees. _Aye, he had trees, plenty of trees in his land of the seven rivers,_ he thought bitterly. Better he be slain by a friend, or as close to a friend as possible, rather than abase himself daily to the Eldar. 

'Sirros! I asked if you had any last request?'

'What can I request now?' It was his turn to laugh coldly. 'Send my spirit to Mandos, come do not delay, fell creature.' Oh, he had not _meant_ those last words! How he wished it had not slipped his mouth like that. If only he had salvaged his friendship just before he died, it could have been his last request that they part as amicably as were possible, but that was _im_possible now. Nimrandin had granted him a favour by asking if he requested anything. At present, at that last insult, his body had stiffened, and his face had grown darker.

'You have made it so Sirros. Farewell.'

It was quick and painless. Sirros' fëa fled in shame to Mandos, where he sits-far away from the sons of Fëanor who are already there-awaiting Nimrandin.

Hope seemed to abandon Nimrandin there, if ever it had been present. As Annael approached, he thought both his companions were dead; for Sirros was lying on the ground, blood seeping from his mouth, but Nimrandin lay slumped on top, blood visible around his stomach. Gently he lifted his friend's corpse away and laid him on the ground. Then he saw that in fact Nimrandin was not greatly injured for the blood on his stomach was that of Sirros: the hilt of a dagger, sparkling maliciously, visibly protruding his chest. 

He wept then. He wept for Sirros, even though their partings words were anything but amicable, but he had greater wisdom that his friend perceived and he knew that Sirros was yet another tragic victim of the dreaded Silmarils, and had fallen under their curse. He wept for Nimrandin, though he was not dead, for having no other choice but to kill his fellow companion. He draped his cloak over Sirros, and wrapped Nimrandin tightly in his own. The latter was breathing quietly; only sleep could mend the physical side of his injuries. Annael sat down by the two motionless bodies, and overwhelmed by grief, he knew no more.

But neither Nimrandin nor Annael perished then, for though the ships of Círdan and Gil-Galad arrived too late to help the people of Sirion, those that remained, and they were but few, joined with the Shipwright and the Elven King and went to the isle of Balar, and that was indeed where the two companions awoke, after their heavy, grief ridden sleep.


End file.
